


Last Call

by veronamay



Category: Withnail & I (1986)
Genre: Angst, M/M, POV First Person, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-01-10
Updated: 2003-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-27 06:39:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Set during the final scene of the movie.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Last Call

**Author's Note:**

> Set during the final scene of the movie.

You say you’ve no time for a drink. The straits are desperate indeed. I can’t allow you to leave alone in this condition -- it simply isn’t safe out there for someone so newly sober.

The green-ness of the park always frightened me -- us -- but now you suit it. You have become conventional.

With this thought the chills begin. The cold and rain are in my bones, but you don’t feel it. You’re alarmingly fresh-faced and eager to conform; detached, looking forward past this moment in a way that frightens me. I can’t see where you’re going.

I’m being melodramatic again. It’s a comfort to me.

“Listen, Withnail, it’s a stinker,” you say. “Why don’t you go back?”

“Because I want to walk you to the station.” This wine really is a delightful drop. I focus closely on the taste; it feels wrong to drink it without you.

“Well, don’t.” We stop near the wolves’ enclosure. You’re serious and earnest and ten times as dangerous as you twist your well-meaning knife. “Please don’t.” So kind and quiet. “I really don’t want you to.”

Yes, a brilliant drop. Criminal of Monty to keep this hidden. The tang is strong in my throat, making my eyes water. Your sensible, acceptable hat is getting soaked in the rain. Your sensible, acceptable hair is probably damp. It curls when it’s damp, but it’s too short now.

“I shall miss you, Withnail,” you say fondly. You truly believe it, I don’t doubt that. Your grip on my shoulder is firm and sincere, but I can’t feel any warmth. Perhaps it’s just too cold.

Once more into the breach, my friend. Last call for drinks. “I shall miss you too,” I reply, completing my part in the farce. It takes more effort than I expect. But something more is called for, surely? A salute at the very least, some fitting end. The bottle is heavy in my hand, presenting an honourable solution. _“Chin-chin.”_

It tastes like an expensive vintage should, with a hint of salt. I can’t understand why you have no stomach for it. But you’ve already turned away when I lower the bottle, so I can’t ask again.

The moment stretches interminably. A hundred possibilities exist; a thousand impassioned words linger in the air. But your stride doesn’t falter and you don’t look back, and I have never been a follower.

_“Man delights not me: no, nor woman neither.”_

The Dane is bitter comfort. The bottle is kinder. Oblivion is a temptress who beckons with a crooked finger.


End file.
